Shattered
by tiffaroolou
Summary: Tony can't sleep. He's worried about Ziva. Post Aliyah and into Truth or Consequences. Tony introspection and Tiva. Was a one-shot, but now continued by popular request.
1. Fragments Of Dreams We Let Die

**Disclaimer: **Blah, blah, blah. Disclaimer stuff. Blah. Standard disclaimers apply.

**Fragments Of Dreams We Let Die  
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The numbers on the alarm clock glowed softly. 4:37 am.

Tony groaned.

Who in their right mind was up at this time of morning?

It was a moot question though, as he couldn't be quite sure he _was_ in his right mind at the moment.

He rolled over, burying his head in the pillows, trying not to think of the dream that had forced him to this current state of insomnia.

_Nightmare, rather_. He told himself. S_ay it how it is, Anthony_.

It was too late anyway.

He couldn't remember the exact details, but he knew it had been about Ziva. They always were these days.

He couldn't explain why her face was such a frequent visitor to his subconscious.

No, that was a lie. He could. He was worried.

She was gone. They had left her in Israel. With Mossad.

_One short, Boss?_

He could still remember the bitter emptiness that had hit him like a shot to the gut when the plane took off, minus one crazy Israeli chick with impulse issues.

He knew she'd been angry with him. Hell, he'd just killed her boyfriend.

Her murderous, glass-shard-wielding boyfriend, but boyfriend nonetheless.

She had a right to be pissed.

But to leave the team? To leave NCIS? And then go months without contacting any of them?

He knew there could be many reasons for this lack of communication, the simplest being that she wasn't planning on coming back and had made a clean break.

But still, he lost sleep troubling over it. Over her.

He couldn't stop feeling that something must be wrong.

She would have contacted Gibbs, at least.

Gibbs had been the one she'd turned to when she was framed for killing those FBI agents, even though he'd been thousands of miles away at the time.

She had made Gibbs choose between them, in Israel.

He couldn't imagine why she would do that. It was like asking a parent to choose between their children.

He lifted his head and looked at the clock again.

4:54

He sighed.

Giving up on sleep for now, he made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto his face.

He wondered why Gibbs had chosen him. Selfishly, he was glad, but still he wondered.

He stared into the mirror. His face was haggard and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

Suddenly hating himself for being selfish, for being glad, for being the reason she left, anger swiftly welled up inside him and he took it out on his reflection, punching the glass hard enough to leave a collection of splintering cracks that radiated outward from a fist-sized indentation.

He barely registered the pain. Didn't notice the blood.

It was all his fault.

It was his fault she was gone.

It was his fault if something had happened to her.

Just like it was his fault that Jenny was dead.

Just like the myriad other things that were, ultimately, his fault.

His rage spent, he raked both hands through his hair as he slumped against the wall.

His right hand protested at the movement, reminding him of its newly injured state, and he mechanically rinsed the blood off his knuckles and went back to his bedroom.

He needed to get his act together.

Rebuild his walls, put on a fake cheery smile, and pretend to everyone that everything was a-ok.

Jokes as disguises, masquerades, camouflage.

Hiding was his specialty.

5:11

Still a couple of hours before he had to be at work.

He remembered that she used to get up this early to run.

Well, he would take a page from her book; there was no point in going back to bed now anyway.

And a run would be good for him.

Punishment for the body and clarity for the mind.

He would run until far after his energy was expended, until he was sweating and gasping and aching all over.

Anything to distract from the ache in his heart.

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**A/N:** My first attempt at angst. How did I do? Please review!


	2. Bleeding Love

**Disclaimer: **Blah, blah, blah. Disclaimer stuff. Blah. Standard disclaimers apply.

*Back by popular request. I'll be continuing this fic for at least a few more chapters that I have ideas for. We'll see what it turns into. :D*

**Bleeding Love**

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As much as he would have liked to, he knew he couldn't run from what he'd done, from what had happened, from this disaster after disaster, screw-up after screw-up.

Despite this, he ran as if to escape from the jaws of hell itself.

His feet pounded the cement of the sidewalk, echoing his pounding heart.

It wasn't enough.

Whatever he did, he could still feel the tell-tale throbbing in his chest.

The hole must still be there, bleeding.

He checked.

Yup, and growing more painful by the day. By the hour.

He panted and gasped for air as he pushed himself harder.

His eyes stung as sweat dripped down into them, blurring his vision.

His muscles burned and ached as he forced them farther, faster, stretching his limits.

He couldn't forgive himself, couldn't forget. He couldn't share his feelings.

Not with his friends.

Not with the team, or what was left of it.

Not with Ziva.

Ziva was gone.

And the worst part of it was, he _knew_ it was his fault.

His cross to bear.

At work, everything was so heartbreakingly normal.

Average, routine, ordinary, everyday.

It was almost as if she had never existed. Had never walked into his life. Had never walked out just as suddenly and taken a piece of him with her.

But she did. And she had.

Such an important piece of him too.

Was it possible to live with a fractured heart? One that had been pulled out and stomped on and put back in, still missing the most vital piece?

He was surprised that he hadn't bled out.

And if anyone mentioned her, he tried to act casually, not to betray what her name did to him.

If he didn't get his guard up quickly enough, someone might notice the look in his eyes and ask him about it. Ask him why. Why he reacted the way he did.

_B__ecause it's all my fault! _He wanted to scream at them. _Why don't you hate me? I do!_

But instead he would feign lightheartedness, he'd laugh and joke it off.

And if anyone was aware that his smile was a little too bright, his wit a little too quick, no one brought it up.

Maybe they knew him too well.

Maybe they didn't know him at all.

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**A/N: **Now that this is going to be a multi-chapter fic, I'm considering changing the title. What do you guys think? Should I leave it or change it?

Please review and let me know! :D xoxoxo


	3. Pieces Of You, Me, Us?

**Disclaimer: **Blah, blah, blah. Disclaimer stuff. Blah. Standard disclaimers apply.

**Pieces of You, Me, Us?  
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He knew his focus was off. Shot to hell, really.

And he couldn't do anything about it.

Oh, he put up a good front and acted like all was well, but who was he fooling in the end?

Anyone?

Maybe. He was good at hiding.

But was anyone _that_ good?

Could anyone really conceal that level of pain and despair for long?

Could anyone really veil a bleeding, torn-apart heart?

If anyone could, it was him. Probably wasn't a good thing though.

Maybe he was crazy.

Were crazy people aware of their own insanity?

If not, and you thought you were crazy, did it automatically mean you were sane?

It was a conundrum, to be sure.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the phone, willing it to ring.

Hoping against hope, against logic, that he would hear something, anything.

The past few months had left the team completely bereft of news, good or bad.

Don't they say no news is good news?

He didn't buy it for a second.

This was bad.

He knew it, could feel it.

Like a cold fear. Like a sixth sense. Like a sucker-punch.

Not a feeling in his gut, like Gibbs.

Rather in his heart, in the empty space, where the missing piece ought to be.

The now vacant spot throbbed and ached as though stabbed anew with each breath he drew.

He didn't mind the pain, though.

He welcomed it. He deserved it after all.

_My fault. All my fault._

The mantra played on permanent repeat in his head.

But still he pretended that nothing was wrong.

He still went out with his friends.

Still watched his movies, taped his sports games.

Still was pleasant and affable to everyone in the office.

Still flirted with the women in HR.

Half-heartedly, not that they'd notice.

All the while not knowing anything for sure, but feeling and dreading the worst.

He couldn't bring himself to actually voice his worries out loud; for fear that they would come to life.

Work was a distraction. Hell, _life_ was a distraction at this point.

A distraction from the void. The void he was in danger of slipping into, the void which her absence created.

He didn't know how much more he could take of this.

It definitely wasn't normal.

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**A/N: **Reviews are the air that I breathe, the water I drink, the sustenance that keeps me alive. Ok, so I'm being a little melodramatic, but please review anyway. ;)


	4. Not Knowing Is The Worst

**Blah, blah, blah. Disclaimer stuff. Blah:** All standard disclaimers apply.

**Not Knowing Is The Worst

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Normal.

What did that mean, anyway?

He was sure that the dictionary had some kind of flat, standard, one-dimensional explanation for the term, but in his opinion normality was an elusive concept at best.

He couldn't even begin to comprehend it.

Was it normal to try to replace Ziva with some generic female agent? They were certainly lining up for the job.

Was it normal to laugh and joke, to wake and sleep, live and breathe, without knowing if she was doing the same?

Was it normal to feel this agonizing, hollow ache every time he thought of her, every time he saw her empty desk, every time the team was together and she was so obviously missing?

He felt her absence. Felt it deeply. Felt it like a tangible reminder of everything that he'd ever done wrong, every time he'd ever screwed up, everyone he'd ever lost.

He couldn't just 'move on,' as Ducky had said.

It wasn't that easy. Not without knowing.

He could understand her not calling _him_.

Although he had hoped that she would come to understand why he'd done what he had, he didn't really expect it.

But none of that mattered to him right now.

He just wished with all that was left of his heart that she would call one of the others.

Or else send an email. Even a postcard. Hell, smoke signals for all he cared.

Just as long as he knew she was all right. That would be enough.

Was it normal that she hadn't contacted them?

No. It wasn't. It couldn't be. At least they agreed with him on that.

_You can't do it alone._

_You gonna stop me?_

_That's not what I said._

Help, hope, and a good dash of sanity came in the form of McGee and then Abby.

He wasn't sure what they would be able to accomplish, but at least now he felt like he was doing something.

Anything.

And anything was better than nothing.

The nothing that, so far, was all that they'd heard.

Nothing exact, nothing definite, nothing solid.

Just hints.

Whispers.

Rumors.

Of secret terrorist training camps.

Of mysterious Mossad ops in the desert.

Of cargo ships named for portentous legendary weapons that filled him, though he did not quite know why, with a sense of foreboding.

This sixth sense began following him everywhere he went, along with the sharp twinge in his already tattered, broken heart that still reacted to every thought and memory of her.

That was all right though.

He deserved the pain. Wanted it. Needed it even.

At this point he wasn't sure if he could function without it.

_A little masochistic, don't you think? _He chided himself. _You don't even know __for sure __that anything's wrong._

They say hindsight is always 20/20.

He should've given himself more credit.

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**A/N: **Reviews are the air that I breathe, the water I drink, the sustenance that keeps me alive, and I will respond to each and every one.

If anyone has a particular part or a certain line of 'Truth or Consequences' where they want to see angsty!Tony inner thought processes, please feel free to request.


	5. Read: No It Isn't

**Blah, blah, blah. Disclaimer stuff. Blah:** All standard disclaimers apply.

**Read: No It Isn't

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No survivors.

The words echoed, reverberated in his head.

No survivors.

They rattled around in his mind like marbles in a jar.

No survivors.

They played back again, more slowly, as if that could possibly help him grasp the significance.

No survivors.

What could that mean?

What _did_ it mean?

No: 1. an adjective used to indicate that there is not any or not one person or thing. 2. a negative response, used to refuse, deny, or disagree with something. 3. an interjection used to indicate shock, disbelief, or disappointment at something somebody has said.

Survivor: 1. one who remains alive despite being exposed to life-threatening danger. 2. one who shows a great will to live or a great determination to overcome difficulties and carry on.

The definition wasn't helping.

His brain tried to make sense of the words, but couldn't.

Or wouldn't.

Not together. Not in that context.

No survivors.

How could that possibly be?

She had been a survivor.

Had been.

He was thinking in the past tense.

Why was he thinking in the past tense?

It couldn't be.

She couldn't.

He-

He was suddenly overcome as it sunk in.

Stunned into absolute silence.

Unable to think, to move, to breathe, to do anything other than take apart those words and what was behind them.

No survivors.

No.

Survivors.

None.

No survivors, no Ziva.

No Ziva.

He felt dazed. Was dazed considered a feeling?

He was frozen.

Numb.

Anesthetized to the world.

He vaguely thought that maybe that should scare him, or at least bother him a little.

But it didn't.

He couldn't bring himself to feel even that.

It was only right that he felt nothing.

Nothing was all that was left.

He could no longer even feel that steady throbbing pain in his chest that he had grown used to all these months. That he had come to associate with her.

It was gone.

There was only one explanation.

His heart must be gone too.

Had been since that day on that tarmac in Israel.

He'd just been fooling himself when he thought that _he_ could survive, when he thought that he could go on without her.

He couldn't.

She was dead and his heart with her.

Buried forever in a watery grave.

Sunk deep in the waves off the coast of Africa.

Gone forever.

He couldn't think.

Didn't want to either. He knew what he would think of and he knew how much it would hurt. Surely no feeling at all was better than that.

He couldn't move.

Well, of course he couldn't move. It only made sense. Dead men can't, you know.

He couldn't breathe.

It wasn't like the plague though. He had wanted to breathe then, had fought for it, had struggled for each precious gasp of air.

But not now.

Breathing was a luxury reserved for the living.

And how could he possibly be alive?

How could a man live without a heart?

All logic, all reason, all sense said he couldn't.

And so, he didn't.

He had ceased to live at that moment.

He now merely existed, if existence was indeed the correct term for what he went about now.

He may have appeared to be alive, but he was like a wax figure in a museum.

A pale, lifeless copy of himself.

Like a robot.

Mechanical.

He was on auto-pilot.

He didn't understand; he only reacted.

He followed his programming reflexively, unconsciously, blankly.

The world seemed to whirl around him as he alone stood still.

The sun rose and set without him; it didn't recognize her absence or require his participation.

Time passed.

He didn't know how long.

Didn't care.

He was falling.

Slowly falling.

Slipping away.

Into the void.

The void of her lack.

There was nothing.

The nothing that he was doing.

The nothing that he was feeling.

Complete and utter nothingness.

Emptiness.

Hollow.

Abyss.

Oblivion.

…

He hit bottom.

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**A/N: **Reviews are the air that I breathe, the water I drink, the sustenance that keeps me alive, and I will respond to each and every one.

If anyone has a particular part or a certain line of 'Truth or Consequences' where they want to see angsty!Tony inner thought processes, please feel free to request.


	6. A Score To Be Settled

**Blah blah blah. Disclaimer stuff. Blah****:** I own nothing. All standard disclaimers apply.

**A/N: **Please review. :D

**A Score To Be Settled

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**shatter (verb)**

(shattered, shattering, shatters)

** 1. smash into pieces**

to break suddenly into many small brittle pieces, or cause something to break in this way

** 2. destroy hope or belief**

to destroy something that somebody believed in or hoped for

** 3. shock somebody**

to shock and distress somebody badly

…

He couldn't be sure how long he'd been like this, just balancing on the frail edge of existence in this not-alive state.

He couldn't judge the time passing, it all seemed to blur into the background as it spun hazily, drunkenly around him.

He would have been impossibly lost and confused if not for the simple fact of his overriding apathy.

He dimly realized that business as usual still went on around him, but he was detached, distant; he had isolated himself from it all.

It lost all meaning.

Life carried on as he hovered on the outskirts; watching, not taking part.

Observing at best.

Emotionless, unconnected to any of the events that he saw without seeing.

People spoke as if from far off, their mouths moving comically. It reminded him of a silent movie, their words translated into only the essentials.

_Blah blah blah. Computer stuff. Blah._

_Autopsy report._

_Words. There's so many words. And, and there's things, and stuff. And emotions. Thanks for listening._

_Got a dead marine. Grab your gear. Got a missing kid. Grab your gear. Some idiot smuggled a koala on a submarine. Grab your gear. Grab your gear. Grab your gear. Grab your gear. Grab your gear._

At that last, something abruptly awoke in him that would have been stirring long before if not for his wonderful and terrible absence of feeling, his absolute deadened state.

As he stood with determination the world all at once resumed its usual pace and clarity.

"No!"

He shook his head.

Adamant, defiant, unyielding. Unwilling to let this go on.

"No."

…

He had made his case, he had volunteered for this mission, he had done what he knew he had to.

Back to the old Tony, at least that's how it seemed.

And he was right; it was painful.

A different kind of pain though. More excruciating. More… final.

What could any torture be compared to this?

It had almost been better when he was numb, when he was only vaguely aware of the life going on around him.

He didn't have to think, didn't have to feel, didn't have to remember.

But the pain grounded him. It woke him up enough for one ultimate act.

To be or not to be?

It was suicide, perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Was it possible for someone who is not-alive to commit suicide?

And he was dead. Of that there could be no doubt.

Somehow it seemed he had always known he couldn't go on without her.

_Do you ever think about soul mates?_

Without his heart.

_I am tired of pretending._

But now he had a purpose, an aim, a goal.

_For you._

He would see it through. He was nothing if not persistent.

Though what was keeping him going now, he didn't quite know.

Some sort of pseudo-heart. That must be it.

Like Metallo.

Only rather than being powered with Kryptonite, he was fueled with desperation.

With retribution.

With…

He squinted up from where he sat, bound, and grinned, his parched lips cracking at the action.

"Vengeance, Saleem. I'm here to kill you."

...


	7. Truth, Lies, Insanity

**Blah blah blah. Disclaimer stuff. Blah****:** I own nothing. All standard disclaimers apply.

**A/N: **Please review. :D

**Truth, Lies, Insanity  


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"Ziva's not replaceable."

Not replaceable. Irreplaceable? Incapable of being replaced?

It didn't really matter how he said it, the end result was the same.

And where had that Spinal Tap mention come from?

Sure it was a hilarious movie, but he was pretty sure that the reference was wasted on the Saleem. And he didn't even know whether McGee was conscious.

Oh well, half of what he did was to entertain himself anyway.

"The one you lost. Then why aren't you looking for her?"

Why?

Why wasn't he looking for Ziva?

He should. He would if he could.

If he knew where to look.

If he had any hopes of finding her.

If he could discover the way and means to go down to Hades and bring her back, like Orpheus and Eurydice.

Then nothing would stop him.

Although, he was pretty sure that particular myth had ended badly. Most of them did, right?

"If I could drag her back, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

Or what would be considered the equivalent, in one without a heart.

And his heart was inexorably, irrevocably, inevitably gone.

With her. Wherever she was. Where?

Inquiring minds want to know: where do broken hearts go?

Hmm. Wasn't that a song?

No. Dammit. He had to focus. The absolute last thing he needed right now was to start belting out Whitney Houston.

The Saleem was speaking again.

About the effects of whatever cocktail of truth ferreting ingredients that had been injected in his vein.

An impulse to talk without censor. Huh.

He had an impulse to ask how that was any different from the usual.

And yet, he could tell that it was.

There was barely a gap between his thoughts and his words as they came pouring out of his mouth.

Like turning on a tap, they flowed unchecked.

Almost.

The urge to simply blurt out the whole plan was nearly overwhelming, but he could handle it by blathering on about other, less important facts.

Insane.

Insanity. Madness. Lunacy.

"I'm insane?"

He laughed.

Maybe he was insane.

Maybe he had to be to have come here.

Maybe he always had been.

They say love is blind? Love is insane.

He tried to resist.

"Who are you leaving out?"

He couldn't lie, as hard as he tried.

He had to tell.

But he didn't have to be such a smart aleck.

Or maybe he did.

It was his natural reaction after all, just enhanced.

New and improved.

He could practically hear the imaginary infomercials running through his head.

'Saleem's Super-Duper Truth Serum. Sure to give anyone the gift of gab. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Act now and we'll throw in a free set of Ginsu knives.'

Oops. Wandering again.

Now the Saleem was angry. He hurled his canteen against the wall.

Tony watched dryly as the red liquid snaked its way down to the floor.

"You had to have your Caf-Pow, didn't you? Hey, it's just a little chemical addiction, don't worry."

He taunted him. Taunted his captor.

Did he have a death wish?

…

No.

Not yet anyway. He had a task to accomplish.

The Saleem left, slamming out of the room.

McGee was awake.

He was all right.

Not time to act yet.

Then came shouting in Arabic outside the door.

A small, hooded figure was pushed into the room and onto the chair in front of him.

He was listening, but not quite hearing the Saleem's little spiel.

There was something familiar.

Something he knew that he knew.

Something that was stirring up memories that he had fought to tamp down.

Who could…

And then, all was revealed.

_Thump, thump._

The Saleem's voice faded away into a dull roar and then… nothing.

Was anything real?

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**A/N:** I adore reviews. I adore reviewers. xoxoxo


	8. What Is Real?

**What Is Real?**

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Dumbfounded.

Flabbergasted.

Bowled over.

He was quite sure that he had never before grasped the meaning of these phrases anywhere near as accurately as he did now.

Were his eyes deceiving him? He could hardly believe that they weren't.

And yet there she was.

Living, breathing, sitting right in front of him.

Looking a bit the worse for wear, but he'd worry about that later.

It was Ziva.

At that moment he didn't much care that they might not get out alive. He'd been dead before, after all.

At least now he had found what he was searching for, what he'd been missing all these months, what he'd thought was gone forever.

But now it was back, throbbing and smarting as if it had never left him.

Without it he had been deficient somehow.

Incomplete.

Alone.

But now… at the sight of her, of his true heart, all was restored.

Each beat was sheer agony, each pulsation utter ecstasy.

Bliss and woe coexisting in one beautiful, excruciating rhythm.

Pleasure and pain.

Joy and misery.

Tony and Ziva.

It was a familiar, yet alien feeling.

Tender and raw though it was, he welcomed it, greeted it with open arms.

He'd never in his wildest dreams thought he would experience it again.

Never thought he would feel again.

Never thought he could.

He had reconciled himself to a senseless existence, doomed to a lack of sensation or meaning.

Had thought he was past the point of no return, past feeling, and now found, to his pleasant surprise, that he wasn't after all.

He basked in this conclusion happily, greedily, lapping it up like water to a man dying of thirst.

An appropriate sentiment, considering they were in the desert at the moment.

The desert desert.

He took her in, every battered, filthy inch of her, and discovered that he was so glad—so glad—to find his heart again, to really feel again, no matter how it hurt, even if it was just to die, that a real smile crept across his face, his first since the news, since that terrible, devastating news, the news that had ripped him in two.

"Well, how was your summer?"


	9. Worth Dying For, Worth Living For

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Seriously. Do I look like Don Bellisario?

**Worth Dying For/Worth Living For**

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They sit in silence, he strangely content behind the shock that fills the room like a physical presence, before she finally speaks.

"Out of everyone in the world who could have found me, it had to be you."

_Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine._

He is doubtful that she actually meant to refer to one of his favorite classic films, but despite the fact that her words could be taken as disparaging without knowledge of that reference for context, this unquestionably lifts his spirits.

They are going to get out of this, they are going to be fine, they are going to have a second chance.

Even fate couldn't be so cruel as to deny them this.

Half giddy with a combination of exhaustion and elation, he grins, licking his dry lips.

"You're welcome. So are you glad to see me?"

After that first stunning moment when the hood had been pulled off her head, she had avoided looking directly at him. As she now lifts her eyes to meet his again, he is taken aback by their lifeless appearance.

Gone is any hint of the sparkle of mischief and teasing that he had become so used to seeing there over the years, gone even the fury and grief he had seen there when they last spoke; there is nothing left but dull resignation.

_What did they do to you, Ziva?_

And he is suddenly angry. Angry at Saleem, at Mossad, at Rivkin, at Eli David, at Gibbs… all contributing factors to whatever has happened here to turn his strong, capable partner into such a shell of herself. But most of all, he is angry at himself.

She is thinner, worn and tired, with injuries in various states of healing on nearly every patch of visible flesh; she has obviously been treated badly. But her eyes are the worst and he doesn't even want to think about what happens to a woman held captive in a camp full of brutal, barbaric men but he forces himself to think about it anyway.

He deserves it.

"You should not have come."

He stares at her for a second, wanting to shout at her, to shake her and tell her to stop being so absurd; of_ course _he had to come. But instead, he takes refuge for the moment in the relative normality of a joke meant to relieve the tension.

Nothing could have stopped him from coming to avenge her death. Doesn't she understand that?

And had he known she was alive, captured and alone here in this godforsaken place, what could have possibly kept him away?

No power on this earth.

He almost wants to include heaven in that as well, but then thinks perhaps it would be a bit presumptuous.

He's not strictly religious but he was raised a Catholic, and now, with Ziva in front of him, practically raised from the dead, any additional evidence of the existence of Divinity would just seem redundant.

"You… thought I was dead."

The disbelief and confusion on her face means that this should have been a question, but somehow it is not phrased as one.

He answers it anyway.

"Oh, yeah."

And even now, even now that he knows that she has been alive this whole time, it is still agony to remember when she was dead to them.

She had resurrected and dropped back into his life barely a few minutes ago, but the feeling now that she is here again and they are together again and he is whole again is so all-consuming that they could have always been here in this little room, forever.

His previous heart-less half-self had never intended to leave here alive, not really. He would have made sure the Probie got out ok, of course, but after that he'd had it in his mind to go out in a blaze of glory, rather like William Holden in _The Wild Bunch_.

Now though, it is as though a whole new life is suddenly open to him. His desperate cause has been rendered unnecessary and averted, his reason for going on has returned, and his heart is back. His earlier way of thinking is now unimaginable.

"Then why are you here?"

Why?

Turns out, he had never before thought through the 'why' of it all. The 'how', 'when', 'where', and 'what' had all been taken care of, but the 'why' had been buried somewhere beneath the surface. It had existed all along, it was there, but he had acted on instinct without actually putting words to his unconscious reasoning.

Now that he allows himself to think about it though (and honestly) he knows exactly why he is here. The world had not been the world without her in it. Life had not been life, and he had simply seen no point in going on.

The only reason he had even made it to this point, he realizes, was his single-minded thirst for vengeance.

It kept him alive when he thought she was dead.

He had gone from a mindless zombie to a blood-lust filled vampire, and only the proof of her existence, once he was certain his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, had shaken him off that destructive path.

He isn't quite comfortable with saying any of that aloud though.

"Well, McGee," he deflects uneasily, "McGee didn't think you were dead."

"Tony," she nearly snaps.

Shot down.

She always did see through his crap.

"_Why_ are you here?"

He makes one more desperate attempt at resistance, but it is in vain.

"Couldn't live without you, I guess."

And it is true.

Truer than anything he has ever said in his life, and not just because it has been pried out of him by Saleem's little truth cocktail.

And although he tries to say it easily, tries to act like he is being flippant at most, he knows that she is seeing through him again.

For a second, he thinks she is about to smile, and she almost does. A tiny, sad, regretful little smile, that evaporates before it has fully appeared.

"So you will die with me."

No, he will _not_.

No, _they_ will not.

They are _not_ going to die here today.

They can't.

Not now that he has something to live for again.

* * *

**A/N: **So... It's been a long time, guys... *waves sheepishly* But I do intend to wrap up this story with a few more chapters within the next month. Thanks to all of you who've stuck with me thus far.

You may have noticed that this chapter is written in present tense, and all of the previous chapters were in past tense. That is how the chapter came to me, and once I realized what I'd written I tried to change it but it just didn't work in the past tense. I'm not sure what the protocol is for switching tense mid-story, so I considered going back and changing all the previous chapters to present tense, but that didn't work either. So, I talked it over with my sister (an English Sterling Scholar, which we like to tease her about when she uses improper grammar, etc) and she wasn't sure either but she did say (and I thought) that if there was some sort of shift in tone or content in a story, some sort of change, not necessarily extreme, that it would be acceptable to change tense as long as I kept it consistent and didn't decide to jump back and forth between tenses in subsequent chapters. I do think this is kind of the turning point of the story, when Tony and Ziva speak to each other, so I think it works to have the story written in present tense from now on.

Feel free to leave comments on whether you agree or disagree, along with your usual extremely flattering reviews. ;) It feeds my ego, my muse, and my need for constructive criticism all in a three-for-one type deal, so, really, why not review?


	10. New Goal: Survival

**Disclaimer: **I own a really awesome new pair of boots. Sort of a consolation prize, I guess, because, barring some freaky yet fortunate turn of events, I will never, ever own NCIS.

**New Goal: Survival

* * *

**

"You should have left me alone."

She is serious, and he is nearly furious.

And the thoughts whirl around and around at a feverish pace, like a dust devil in the desert storm of his mind. Whatever he expected upon finding her alive here, this was not it.

How can she place such little value on her life? How, when he places infinitely more value on it than on his own?

How can she think that any of them would have been content to leave matters so unresolved, so unavenged?

And how can she imagine—for even a second—that they wouldn't come?

That _he_ wouldn't come?

…that he doesn't care?

Does she know what it did to him when he thought she was dead?

Does she know of the gaping hole that she left, the one that slowly but surely ripped away vital pieces of him, of his heart and soul, until the emptiness all but consumed him?

Does she know that in the moment he believed she was gone forever his entire life flashed before his eyes, past and future, encompassing everything he had hoped to have with her, and then spitefully vanished in an instant?

_Does she know that it killed him, too?_

She can't possibly know all of this. If she knew, she wouldn't still doubt his resolve, wouldn't question his presence.

But he doesn't tell her.

It may sound eloquent enough in his head but now is hardly the time to bare his soul, even if he was actually sure he wanted to. So he does his best to restrain himself, resisting the truth serum working its way through his veins.

"Ok. Tried. Couldn't."

And even that reveals far more than he intended.

"Listen, you should know I've taken some kind of truth serum, so if there's any questions that you don't want to know the answer to—" he shakes his head ineffectively, nearly biting his tongue to keep from going on.

"I did not ask for anyone to put themselves in harm's way for me." And damned if she doesn't lift her chin stubbornly as she meets his eyes, daring him to defy her, reminding him of all their past stare-downs. "I do not deserve it."

The gesture is the same, but the customary spark is still missing. This is Ziva, and yet not.

And frankly, this not-Ziva is beginning to unnerve him, just a little.

"So, what are you doing out here, some kind of a monastic experience?" he finds himself saying, hiding behind the smoke and mirrors that are humor as he wills the real Ziva David to please stand up. "Doing penance?"

And her solemn expression changes not at all, either not registering or, more likely, dismissing, his sarcasm.

"It is justified."

And he stares.

What can she mean by that?

Just what is she trying to prove?

Does she blame herself?

He tries to return them to some sense of familiarity, to bring them back down from this quasi-existential plane of discussion on which they never should have arrived.

"Get over yourself."

And it may sound harsh considering what he knows she must have been through, but he needs Ziva to be Ziva again, needs to pull her back to herself, back to him, because really, it's the same thing.

"I have."

And that answer is as uncomplicated and straightforward as it is multifaceted and profound.

It could mean so many things, but at face value he is afraid (so afraid) that it simply means that she has given up.

He has to be wrong, though.

She can't give up. She's Ziva. She's his crazy ninja chick with impulse issues, full of life and laughter and love (in her own unique way).

She's too strong to give up.

But right now, he's not sure that he's ever seen her look more fragile.

"Now, you tell Saleem everything he wants to hear, and you try to save yourselves. I am ready to die."

And those words set off something instinctive in him, something that overrides speech and conscious thought, and all that he can hear in his mind is 'no'.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

No, this is not happening.

No, he can't _let_ this happen, not again.

No way is he walking away from here without her, no way.

How can she not understand that?

And it's not a matter of 'will he or won't he'; he's simply not capable of living without her.

If she is alive, he can go on living too.

If not, well, he knows by now it is out of the question.

If his heart ceases to exist, so must he.

But he would much prefer to live.


End file.
